


darkness

by alcibiades



Category: The Young Pope (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, I'm Sorry, M/M, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, adversarial relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcibiades/pseuds/alcibiades
Summary: “Holy Father,” said the Prime Minister. Lenny had expected that this late he’d be rousing the man from sleep, or at least find him undressed for the night, but instead the Prime Minister was still dressed in the smart, funereal sort of suit Lenny had met him in, with that same self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I almost didn’t recognize you; your attire is — should we say — a bit different.”Lenny raised an eyebrow. “But of course,” the Prime Minister continued, “how could I not recognize the Holy Father? His beautiful blue eyes; his soft, round mouth. Please, will you come inside?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disenchanted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disenchanted/gifts).



> Not beta-read, proceed at your own risk.

In the night, Lenny couldn’t help but imagine the Vatican in darkness. No lights around the obelisk, the fountain, no glittering jewel of Rome beyond its walls — not even the moon or the stars. Silent and dark, the city became little more than a gaping maw, the buildings resembling nothing so much as jagged teeth. And Lenny imagined, walking past the gates of the Apostolic Palace, hands in pockets and hood up, that indeed he was the only light.

There was no doubt that the Prime Minister had any number of charming country villas at his disposal - no doubt because Lenny had done a great deal of reading about the Prime Minister before their first meeting. But, for reasons likely to do with that meeting, and probably the fear the Prime Minister had failed to acknowledge publicly or privately that Lenny would make good on his threats, the Prime Minister was instead currently residing at a flat in Rome. It was, in fact, so close to the Holy See itself as to be referred to as “within a stone’s throw,” which was what Sister Mary had said when she’d brought the folder to him.

The building was relatively inauspicious, in keeping with the persona the Prime Minister had established, but it would have been impossible not to recognize the cadre of somber men in dark suits discreetly positioned outside. They got cagey as Lenny approached, shifting their weight, hands toward guns. “I’m here to see the Prime Minister,” said Lenny. “I believe you’ll find he’s expecting me.”

One of the guards held up a hand, forestalling. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I don’t believe the Prime Minister has any meetings scheduled at such a late hour. May I ask who you are?”

Lenny put his hood down. “Pope Pius XIII,” he said.

There was some scuttling around inside the villa, which was to be expected. Certainly none of these buffoons recognized him, he’d worked hard enough to prevent that. But he had calculated the scenario to such effect that it wouldn’t have mattered. A lone figure dressed in white, coming on foot down the dim narrow street, his face shrouded by a hood. And then, when he revealed himself to them, and spoke with such confidence —

“Holy Father,” said the Prime Minister. Lenny had expected that this late he’d be rousing the man from sleep, or at least find him undressed for the night, but instead the Prime Minister was still dressed in the smart, funereal sort of suit Lenny had met him in, with that same self-satisfied smirk on his face. “I almost didn’t recognize you; your attire is — should we say — a bit different.”

Lenny raised an eyebrow. “But of course,” the Prime Minister continued, “how could I not recognize the Holy Father? His beautiful blue eyes; his soft, round mouth. Please, will you come inside?”

He let Lenny walk past him, and then smartly walked not ahead of Lenny but just abreast of him; it was nothing less than Lenny would have expected. The man was a politician, after all. He led Lenny up to a study with the window open, letting in the warm evening air and the smell of the sea. There was a laptop open on the handsome wooden desk, an empty plate covered by a napkin, a bottle of wine, and a half-drunk glass.

“May I offer you a glass of wine, Holy Father?” the Prime Minister asked, still standing, apparently completely at ease, his hands in his pockets.

“Cherry Coke Zero,” said Lenny.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I’d like a Cherry Coke Zero.” The Prime Minister’s brow had furrowed slightly. Lenny sighed. “You don’t have it.”

“I can send someone —“

Lenny cut him off, airily waving one hand. “That won’t be necessary. I don’t intend to stay long.”

“Please pardon us for being unprepared for your arrival,” said the Prime Minister. “I wasn’t under the impression that the Pope himself made It a habit of visiting politicians unannounced in the middle of night.”

“I don’t,” Lenny said.

The Prime Minister raised his eyebrows. “Would the Holy Father then care to enlighten me as to the purpose of his visit?” He took a hand out of his pocket and reached for the glass of wine, languidly taking a long drink. Lenny could smell It even from where he was standing — oak, currant, pepper.

“Your hubris is astonishing, Mr. Prime Minister,” said Lenny. “To presume that you — a man elected by, as I recall, forty-one percent of the Italian populace — can make demands of the Pope, answerable as I am only to God himself.” He could see the Prime Minister gathering himself to speak, taking a step toward Lenny, so he continued, to forestall it: “Cardinal Voiello is deeply concerned that you intend to make good on your promises to promote the causes I very plainly stated were not only offensive to me, but to the blessed church as a whole.”

“You’re here because you’re _worried_ you have not adequately put the fear of God into me, Holy Father?” The Prime Minister was blatantly smiling now, teeth and all. Like a wolf who thought the tender flesh of the lamb was his for the taking. But Lenny was no lamb.

“Of course not,” he said. “I informed Cardinal Voiello of my certainty that you were bluffing.” He raised an eyebrow. “You imagine I would leave the Apostolic Palace and come to you, as you said, in the middle of the night, because I’m _afraid_ of you, Mr. Prime Minister?”

“Well,” the Prime Minister said. “I could be forgiven for the thought. Or perhaps I thought only that you might relish having a worthy adversary against whom to do battle?”

Lenny curled his lip. “You are no more worthy to me than a fly.” He paused. “And perhaps less so in the eyes of God.”

The Prime Minister laughed; he had taken a few steps closer, and was within a foot of Lenny, though considering they were of a height, if he meant to intimidate, he was entirely mistaken. He reached for the zipper of Lenny’s sweatshirt, and Lenny watched his hand as he slowly unzipped it. Then he reached for the waistband of Lenny’s pants.

“I have no interest in that,” Lenny said coldly.

“Of course not,” the Prime Minister said, with a laugh, stepping back and slumping into his desk chair. “The Holy Father should be beyond such worldly and sinful concerns. Though I have heard that you plan to remove all homosexual priests from the Church, and I admit I wondered if you did not, as the saying goes, protest too much.” His gaze had gone hot and heavy-lidded, full of that famous Italian smolder and long dark eyelashes. It was not unfamiliar; Lenny was aware of the effect he had. “Anyway — you can forgive a lesser man, I’m sure.”

The Prime Minister unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants. He slipped his hand inside; Lenny watched the fine tendons and muscles of his hand work. “Tell me why you’re here, Holy Father,” said the Prime Minister. “If, as you say, you think I’m bluffing.”

“I am here,” Lenny said, slowly, deliberately, picturing the suffering face of Christ upon the cross, picturing God in His hovel on the outskirts of Heaven, picturing the gaping maw of the Vatican hungry to swallow up the sinners of the world, to destroy them and never again be tormented by their lowliness, “to show you, Mr. Prime Minister, that even in the middle of the night, even unexpected, even dressed in sweatpants, you should still be afraid of me.”

The Prime Minister’s mouth was wet. “I’m here to show you that stripped of my trappings, my adornments, taken from my palace, you are still to me as a flea to be stepped upon, to be flicked from my sleeve.” Lenny went a little closer, his hand on the back of the Prime Minister’s chair, over his left shoulder. “I am here to tell you that your fear of me should come not from your fear for your immortal soul, because I don’t care about the dead. No, Mr. Prime Minister, I leave your soul’s punishment up to God. But should you refuse the demands which I have made of you, I will show you what Hell is, and I will show it to you right here on Earth. I will take from you every last miserable thing you care about, and I will make you come crawling to me like the apostate you are to beg me for mercy and kiss my feet.”

Out the window, he could see the moon’s pale face, and imagined it submerged in water, sizzling and going dark. The Prime Minister’s breathing had gone loud, heavy, fast. Lenny leaned down, putting his mouth just next to the Prime Minister’s ear, and said, tenderly, “I’m here because you’re bluffing.”

He stepped back and went to the window. The noise the Prime Minister made was an ugly one, all full of animal suffering. When he looked over his shoulder, the Prime Minister had reached for the napkin on the desk and was wiping off his hand. “I trust I’ve made my point,” said Lenny. “I’ll see myself out.”

“Buonasera, Holy Father,” said the Prime Minister, not making a move to rise from his chair, which, while profoundly disrespectful, was not, at this juncture, unexpected. He’d left the door to the study open, but none of the guards were in evidence outside, and in fact none of them appeared to be on the upper floor of the flat whatsoever. Not that it would have mattered; Lenny wasn’t the one here doing the sinning.

He walked back to the Apostolic Palace unhindered, though the temperature had dropped in the past hour or so and was now on the chilly side of comfortable. No one saw him return, and he slipped into his bed to a deep and dreamless sleep, empty and black as he could have hoped for.

In the morning, he sat with his newspaper, the carbonation of the Cherry Coke Zero bursting on his tongue. The sun streamed in the window; it would be a warm day. At the door, there was a brief conference between a young nun and Valente, who broke free from her after a moment holding a small piece of paper, which he brought to Lenny. “Holy Father,” he said, placing it to the side of Lenny’s newspaper. “For you.”

Lenny set down his can of Coke and unfolded the paper; it was just a plain, white piece of paper, with one sentence dashed off in a hurried scrawl: _I wasn’t bluffing._


End file.
